moonlettuce | Slashficathon!

The assignment I was given was Giles/Spike, no death, no rape. I'm thanking the gods that

saussy decided that 1,000 words was a lower limit, because I went over by about 450 words and I've no idea where I could have culled them from.

So, here is it. It's for

wolfling, so I hope you like it :)

Nitrogen Narcosis
by Claire

It's early morning when Giles eventually gets home, the sun peeking over the edges of Sunnydale, illuminating the darkness. It's been too long since he's had a night like this and he can already hear the siren call of his bed beckoning him to sleep. He jams his key in the lock, the click it makes as it turns partially drowned out by the flare of a match being lit.

"Tut, tut, Watcher. Been out all night? What would the children say?" The shadows part to release a figure, resplendent in black and red, leather and cotton, leaning against the wall.

"What do you want, Spike?" Because it's too late, or is it too early? for this and Giles just wants to get indoors.

"Well, that's a pretty welcome." The barely smoked cigarette is flicked to the floor and ground beneath the heel of a boot. "Or are you too knackered from shaggin' some bloke to give me a proper hello?" It's a question that isn't. As near to a statement of fact as Spike's smug little smirk will let it be.

"I don't know what you mean." The words just barely make it past the bile that's rising in his throat, past the fear that's taken up residence.

"Come off it," Spike laughs, and Giles has never hated the sound more. "Can smell it, can't I." The vampire taps his nose with a long, delicate-looking finger. "You're like a fine wine, Rupert. A heady bouquet of sweat, tears and spunk. Not all of it yours, either." His nose twitches. "An' there's blood in there, too." He sounds impressed. "Looks like you're not all tweed under there after all. Who woulda thought?"

Giles wants to say something, to disavow it, but the words won't seem to form. Unvoiced denials dying even as his mind calmly reminds him of the futility of lying to a vampire.

Spike continues, unknowing or uncaring of the affect his words are having on Giles.

"Ain't told them that you like screwin' other men, have you? Frightened of what they'll think of you?"

Giles looks away, turning from the truth in Spike's voice. Because he remembers the venomous words from his mother's lips when she'd found he and Ethan together. Remembers the look of disgust and disappointment in her eyes. And he never wants to see that look from Buffy, from any of them.

"What do you want?"

He knows Spike will ask, knows the vampire would never have mentioned it if there wasn't something he wanted. So Spike will ask and Giles will give. Because he needs to keep Spike silent.

"I don't know what you mean." The words are too calm, too smug, but they're also something else. Spike's voice, devoid of its accent as the vampire repeats Giles' earlier words back to him, sounds too much like his own. It sounds too much like the proper young man his mother warned him he had to be, too much like the one who sent away the man he loved because it was 'the decent and right thing to do'. He can almost smell his mother's perfume, soft and floral, her presence is so palpable. Palpable, reminding, unforgiving.

"Come off it, Spike. You want something, now what is it?" They're going to do this so he doesn't need the games beforehand, doesn't need Spike playing with him when Giles' own mind is quite prepared to do it for him.

"Fine." Spike pushes himself away from the wall and covers the distance between them in two easy strides, standing so close Giles can almost feel the non-existent breath. "You, mate. I want you." Voice soft, a caress. "On your knees. Begging for it."

And he knows there's air around them, so why is it so difficult to breathe? "I..." But his voice trails off, there are no words in him for this.

"Ssh." A cool finger trails down his cheek. "Let Spike take care of you." An arm is wrapped around his shoulders as he's led into his own house. The key Spike takes out of the door makes a quiet clatter as it's dropped onto the cabinet and a long leather duster follows it, thrown insolently over the back of the couch.

Giles knows he should object, should tell Spike to leave. Knows he should get one of a hundred crosses and stakes scattered around the room to make sure the vampire does just that. But he doesn't move, stands there ignoring the small, mocking voice running through him telling him that he's exactly where he wants to be; ignoring the voice that tells him his cock shouldn't be throbbing this badly. Spike watches him for a second, an eternity, and then there are hands on his shoulders, pushing him down. Only Giles' body isn't resisting, smoothly dropping to his knees, face inches from the bulge at Spike's crotch.

He looks up meeting Spike's eyes as the vampire nods wordlessly. Fingers reach out, fearless and sure, opening Spike's jeans and delving inside, releasing the cool flesh to the air. He moves forward, tongue darting out to lick the head of the swollen cock made hard by stolen blood.

The shudder that runs through Spike shows the other man's appreciation more than words. Bolder, he wraps his tongue around Spike's cock and sucks it into his mouth.

"Ah! Yeah, go on, suck it."

Tongue moving over the hardness, exactly the same as every other time except for the initial coldness. But the flesh soon warms, drawing heat from Giles' mouth, and now this could be any one of a thousand men in a thousand rooms. But it isn't any of those anonymous men, it's a name he knows, a body he recognises. And his cock beats an insistent tattoo against the inside of his trousers at the thought of it.

"Go on, Rupert." His name falls from Spike's lips effortlessly as chill fingers tangle in his hair, tugging. Hands controlling his movements, a tender guide disguising itself as an imitation of harshness. He braces himself on muscular thighs, on legs that looks too soft, too pale to be substantial. And all the while the words keep coming.

"Yes, that's it."

Gentle, encouraging. Not that he needed pushing into doing this, into sinking to his knees in front of this hard body in particular. He wants this, craves it. He's dreamed of this, and Spike knows it.

"My good boy." Fingers continue to run through his hair, careful, caressing. Voice crooning endearments. Soft in way Spike isn't, gentle in a way he's never been before.

He laves at the hardness in his mouth, moving his lips over Spike's flesh as he goes. A rumbling groan washes over him and Spike's fingers tighten their grip slightly. Tongue and teeth working together now, licking and nipping, suckling and biting. The groan increases in pitch, fevered and frantic, urging Giles onwards. He scrapes his teeth down the shaft, clamping down harder than any human could bear.

"Fuck, Watcher!" Spike's voice a mixture of lower class London and the Queen's English as the epithet is gasped out.

Giles' fingers tighten on Spike's thighs and he can imagine the red marks that will be forming; bruises that will heal too quickly on skin that shows every flaw for too little time.

Controlling a gag reflex that long since stopped caring he takes Spike to the root, nose brushing against wiry curls that should smell of something more than smoke and blood. Swallowing against the hardness, Giles works his throat muscles, massaging the cock within him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

The litany becomes a shout as Spike comes, slamming his hips forward and shooting himself down Giles' throat. Hands clutch at his hair, pushing just past the point of pain, just past the point of ecstasy and he pulls back. Spike's still spasming cock slips from his lips as Giles drops to all fours, shuddering, sticky warmth spreading across his groin.

His breathing slowly coming back under his control, Giles looks up as the tang of nicotine hits the back of his nostrils. A curl of smoke drifts up from Spike's cigarette as the vampire stands there, leaning against the back of the couch like he hasn't just exploded Rupert Giles' entire world.

Finally acknowledging the gaze being aimed at him, Spike glances down, sharp blue eyes fixing on Giles. Stubbing out the cigarette on the palm of his hand, the blond fishes a battered pack out of his pocket and drops the dog end in it. Closing the gap between them, Spike crouches down next to him.

"Good boy." Palm soft against his cheek, loving. Delicate in a way he'd never expected of Spike. "*My* boy."

And the world rebuilds itself, a little bit differently, but just as welcomed.